


Violence Theory

by Terror_AI



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Genome Soldiers - Freeform, Morally Ambiguous Character, Shadow Moses Island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26609323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terror_AI/pseuds/Terror_AI
Summary: Snake is not cruel. They are only human.For once, Snake doesn’t hold back when the urge to dig his blade in deeper strikes him like a bolt through his chest.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: How Do Your Genes Sleep?





	Violence Theory

There’s a discernible rhythm to every plan of attack. Entry points and blindspots are formulas with varying values applied depending on the circumstances. Assailant tactics are the decimals, dividing incoherency, cowing the variable percentage into something more cohesive. Nothing is without its own unique logic when tactics are applied; everything makes sense, so long as there’s forethought to how the mission will be carried out. 

Beginning with numbers, there’s a distinct _two._

Blunt indentations in the snow showed a sluggish pace of not one, but _two_ men, clad in boots heavier than what the weather would warrant. Latex overshoes often accompany troops prepared for the terrain of Alaska’s harshest areas, yet these two clearly aren’t as such. 

It’s common courtesy to slip one’s off when entering a facility with respect for those who clean the floors. The tread of protective overshoes are especially slick, repelling water while retaining crud typical of the outdoors, whereas run-of-the-mill combat boots act as clogs, filling with melted snow and grinding into the ground, leaving messy prints in their wake. In other words, they aren’t hard to follow. 

Footprints act as northern lights in the cold darkness. Two men behind the cargo truck, just within the encased security camera’s line of view. They split, patrolling the loading bay in separate areas. A CHAFF Grenade won’t serve any purpose here - the distance between the closest warm body and the nearest camera is too great to cross unnoticed. It would take too long to subdue and drag a body out of sight before the security systems went back online. 

Snake sticks to the wall and creeps past rows of trucks with dormant engines like ghosts, nothing but a shadow in their blackened headlights. 

Non-lethal force is restraint of the highest form, Snake knows. No matter the pain inflicted upon oneself by another, one can never allow frustration to overwhelm them; there is always a choice. Lethality without thought does not denote power or precision, only carelessness. 

A single tranq round turns _two_ into _one_. Snake hugs the limp body close to his own, wrapping both of his arms around their middle and hoisting them into the nearest tented truck bed. The Solitan Radar shows one bright, angry blip, still flashing like a beacon. He has no choice but to round the loading bay’s furthest three walls to avoid the security camera - he does so undeterredly by raucous voices just outside, the barking of hounds, or the rumbling of distant engines as more troops file in and seek out their posts. He finds his target quickly and quietly. 

Genetic theorists speculate that perceptive traits are not skills bolstered by practice, but inherited. Assuming a parent figure was proficient at _seeking_ , as opposed to _destroying_ , the offspring would be vigilant; spry. Whereas the other way around, they should become belligerent unprompted; confrontative where passiveness would suffice. Snake has heard every variation of that speculative take ranging from emphatic support, to flat-out denial, and supposes both must be true if there’s so much controversy. He is a product of his own devising and the clay formed into a soldering machine by his mentors, and yet he isn’t so arrogant as to say his genetics don’t hold some credit. 

He wonders what the soldiers around him consider themselves to be - self-made men, stepping to their own beats, or cookie-cutter molds of different generals’ rules and regulations, or their finely tuned training regimens. He wonders how they categorize themselves, if they do so at all. 

The remaining soldier ahead of him is wary. He isn’t simply skittish, Snake can tell, but he watches the room with a cautious eye unlike the others - he never got used to the cruel hazings of his comrades nor the silence of an all but abandoned cargo bay in the middle of a blizzard in the subarctic. 

Genetics be damned, he learned his behavior the Pavlovian way - kick a dog enough times, and one day he’ll be gone before you can even catch sight of him in a bad mood. He senses the impending danger, Snake can tell. 

Snake leaves the shadows swiftly, attempting to strike the soldier at a debilitating pressure point, only to miss. His move is dodged as the soldier jumps to the side with a surprised yelp, their reflexes on par with Snake’s own. 

The soldier raises their rifle at half-mast and Snake can see it in their eyes - they aren’t afraid to shoot. They lack restraint; caution. They don’t shy away from the impending _‘pop’_ reverberating off of these concrete walls as Snake’s skull crunches like a walnut, and their conscience won’t be weighted by another body. 

Snake takes pity on a lack of restraint more than anything else. He knows how war desensitizes until everything that breathes is nothing more than a bullseye. He gets it, he really does. Which is why he doesn’t hesitate to disarm his opponent and dislodge their magazine in the blink of an eye, and tackle them to the ground. 

Strained grunts and the thudding of limbs against the floor echo softly off of the interior walls until the soldier pulls a knife from their boot, and Snake has no choice but to end the prolonged struggle before it can truly compromise his mission. 

There is _always_ a choice. Often, it simply boils down to whether or not your opponent is willing to give it to you. 

Snake can feel their windpipe sever as droves of molten crimson flow out onto his hands and the serrated edge he wields, warm and prickling. The soldier suffocates on their choked words, their voice muted, lungs filling with their own fluids. They look confused, terrified _._

Snake is not cruel; they are only human. 

For once, Snake doesn’t hold back when the urge to dig his blade in deeper strikes him like a bolt through his chest. 

He rotates his wrist against an audible crunching of soft cartilage and watches marred flesh begin to tremble, spurting flecks of brilliant redness against his face. He squints when it lands in his eye, wiping it on his shoulder. Melted snow makes for a good rinse; he isn’t worried about the cleanup. 

The last of the soldier’s essence spills onto Snake’s hands, up to his forearms, pooling on the concrete, and Snake withdrawals, falling back on his heels with a sigh. He speaks into his Codec with his own blood rushing to his ears in a way he’s scarcely allowed himself to feel ever before. It’s _exhilarating._

The colonel is satisfied to hear that the southernmost loading bay _was_ in fact a brilliant point of entry. He gives Snake a vague direction to proceed in, saying _‘jump’_ , and of course, Snake begs for the specificities of _just how high_. He’s a good soldier in that respect - he’s never been afraid to get his hands dirty. He doesn’t yet fear his lack of hesitancy for what it is. 

Genetics don’t tell of practice or form. They’re blueprints we all abide by whether we wish to or not. For some, that is the difference between a high metabolism and a slow one, or keen vigilance when faced with danger as opposed to sluggish turns and lidded eyes. For Snake, it’s mounting fear that the taking of a life may be the only thing that entices his soul any longer.


End file.
